I’ve read that every conversation held in a house is stored somewhere inside its walls. I think of this when sitting inside my own 123-year-old Beaufort house — or any beach house, for that matter. Because I’ve always believed that these structures are vessels for dreaming dreams, celebrating wins, reuniting with the people we love most, and, if only for a moment, letting go of the outside world.

I began feeling that way as a child, during our annual trek from my hometown of Salisbury to the North Carolina coast with my extended family. I can close my eyes and still feel the anticipation mounting as we rode those long hours. Inhale the salt as we pulled into the driveway. Feel the rough-hewn porch boards of the cedar-shake oceanfront house beneath my feet. Hear my grandmother reciting bedtime stories, her eastern North Carolina accent lilting and slow, as smooth as the rhythmic crashing of the waves heard through the open windows.

The author, along with her dog, Salt, look out over Beaufort from the porch of their home.  photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

They are my simplest memories, my most unhurried. Because a beach house isn’t demanding. It doesn’t require schedules of activities or tourist attractions or drying your hair. A beach house begs that you pull up a rocking chair, make a cup of coffee, open that book you’ve been trying to read all year, and rest in the arms of a place that was made for real, true relationships.

Over the years, as those relationships grew, so did our family. The house got fuller. But some things never changed: searching for ghost crabs with flashlights, standing in line for ice cream after hours in the hot sun, the massive bowl of classic candies — BB Bats, Mary Janes, Peanut Butter Bars, Sugar Daddy lollipops — that we snuck all day long. Even the elaborate and lengthy process of making up all those beds on the first night seemed more fun because we were together.

“While we wanted it to feel like an easy, breezy beach house, a place you can get sand on the floor, we still wanted to incorporate nods to the past,” Harvey says of her “constantly evolving” 1903 home. photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

When my husband and I started dating, he began joining us on those trips. And I, in turn, visited his family’s Atlantic Beach house, which has been passed down through generations. The wooden plank walls contained pencil marks of the heights of every single family member (and dog!) as they grew throughout the decades. The original furniture and photographs remained as a time capsule that instantly made me feel like a part of the family.

And that, in short, is the beauty of a beach house. Amid a world that spins so quickly, beach houses take us back in time and remind us that we can still be awed by the simplicity of another sunrise, the smell of sunscreen, the feel of sand in the sheets, and the fact that every person who has ever stepped over the threshold of this place has shared our joy and laughter.

“These rooms are a collected mix of things that are special to our family,” Harvey says. photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

With those beginnings, maybe it isn’t surprising that, years later, my husband and I fell so head over heels for a beach house that we decided to move into it full-time. Our home isn’t just an escape; it’s a piece of history. And a durable one at that. It has survived floods, hurricanes, abandonment, and, well, toddlers. It’s a welcome mat for sandy feet and wet bathing suits, porch sitting and summer parties. It is my happy place.

Visitors almost always say that this house has a good soul. That’s the same thought I had the first time I walked through the dilapidated front door. That thing we call the soul? Those are the words, the memories, the laughter, the happy tears stored in the walls and ceilings — an invisible connection to everyone who has ever been here.

I love to stand on the widow’s walk and think about the generations of women before me, waiting for boats to return in this same spot. I love that no matter how often I sweep, granules of sand still stick in the grooves between the age-old hardwood planks, that these grains connect me through time and space to those summers with my family.

I love how, sometimes, I’ll run my hand through my son’s hair, a beach boy through and through, and, even after a shower, tiny grains remain. It’s a reminder that, as much as his own skin, this place is a part of him. And he is a part of it. His words, his laughter, his footsteps have become an integral part of these beach house walls, the soul of this place that will outlive all of us, standing tall and proud, always waiting for the simplicity of another summertime by the sea.